Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.

I have a question for you to consider this morning. Do you think that it is possible for a two year old to stagger the timing of his poos to maximise their impact?

I am convinced that Henry is doing so, and what’s more, I suspect that he is engaging in some kind of nefarious activity designed to increase both the concentration and odour of what is dangerously developing into weapons-grade faeces.

Advanced satellite imaging suggests that there may be some kind of involvement from North Korea. Or Syria. Or Libya. Or perhaps the neighbour’s cat. Whatever. We’re considering counter strikes as we speak.

Ezra, bless him, is still working on a naïve level – typical of babies and despotic tin pot dictators – that more is inexorably better. The little fellow lacks the sophistication of Henry’s innovative and enhanced brand of asymmetrical warfare.

Now, while this technique is thoroughly unsuited to poo-related conflict, it is proving wholly successful on the sleep front. Ezra has now taken to regular outbursts that appear timed to maximum disruption to the household.

I swear that he lays there in that cot, with one sly little eye on Jen and I, and as soon as he sees either of us entering into deep sleep, “WAAAAGHHHHHHHH!”

Smart kids, my two lads...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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